Chelsea pensioner and poet’s moving tribute to horses sent to war
Roy Palmer is 85 and wears his iconic scarlet of the much loved Chelsea pensioners where he is the Hospital’s first Herald. Roy has been writing verse for much of his life and was chosen to pen the official poem for D-DAY 80. It will be read out across the nation’s schools at 11am on June 6, honouring the men and women who fought in World War ll
Roy has also written a moving account seen through the eyes of a horse sent to the front in World War l. He captures the fear, the anguish, the ultimate resignation of the fate that awaited them, and concludes that we humans have a duty to protect the animals who come into our care.
War Horses by Roy Palmer
Living in the city, I don’t see, too much grass.
A three-year-old, Piebald Gelding, with harness covered in brass.
Sixteen hands I stand, with the name of Able.
Having had my morning feed, I am waiting in the stable.
Looking handsome with my plaited mane, while pulling a painted dray,
Having to deliver beer to local pubs, all and every day.
Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen, that is the fateful year.
My draymen are late, why? am I still waiting here.
Then the doors open, three men are standing there.
Looking me up and down, at my teeth they stare.
Prodding and poking, measuring and nodding their head.
I am removed from my friends and put in a box instead.
Talk goes on, papers signed and money changes hands.
I hear the words “Conscripted” and going to different Lands.
An event has started, my driver calls it “War”.
It meant nothing, I’d never heard the word before.
The journey lasted for hours; I know not! to where.
Without my friends around me, I really do not care.
We arrive at the docks, or, some such place.
Not knowing where, would be our final base?
We are all unloaded, standing, wondering what to do.
Everything is chaotic and our surrounding are entirely new.
With dozens of horses on the quay, waiting by my side.
Ready to be put aboard ship, before the outgoing tide.
Some straps went under my girth, making it hard to breathe.
My lungs are strangled and! I felt the need to wheeze.
With a block and tackle, I am manhandled with, little dignity.
Then lowered into the hold, ready to sail the sea.
The journey is not good, Thank God I cannot get seasick.
Horses cannot vomit, so I would choke and die real quick.
The journey is over, I am manhandled once again.
Landing on strange soil, realising this is not a game.
We all stand there and are placed in many groups.
Depending on size and strength, then sent to different troops.
Because of my background they know that I am strong.
They put me in a troop, saying “that’s where you belong”.
Many were used for cavalry, but I was much too big.
So I am used in the artillery, pulling a gunners’ rig.
In a team of six, I take the right hand lead.
Pulling those guns, to the places of urgent need.
All the time, the shells and bullets are flying.
Some of us are wounded, with many others dying.
We are tethered at night, there are no comfy stalls.
Then are roused and harnessed, before the bugle calls.
Dragging the guns through mud, craters, to hell and back.
Which once were roads, but are now, not even tracks.
For many hours and miles we struggle to keep going.
Pulling that heavy gun, now our fears are growing.
The clinging, stinking mud, right up to my girth.
I’ve never known, such terrible conditions, since my birth.
We must keep pulling, it is hard, we dare not stop.
If we did to the floor, we are sure to drop.
From A to B we pull, then our limbers are unhitched.
What a life I lead, why can’t these guns be ditched.
The work is really hard and the hours are long.
But I am well fed, they need to keep me strong.
Oats, chaff, linseed and fourteen pounds of hay.
These are our requirement, each and every day.
Rest we need, you can’t go forward all the time.
Many of our friends have died, and were covered in lime.
I am frightened by the noise and the things I see.
There are sores on my body, where my harness has to be.
The grooms try hard, they worry about our needs.
Appling balm where needed, making sure, we get our feeds.
My hooves are cleaned and picked, whenever there is time.
Then my foot is banged quite hard, with a sock of lime.
This helps to prevent infection, keeping a healthy hoof.
Without this intervention, our heads would begin to droop.
We struggle through barbed wire and shells are falling round.
Many of my friends in the mud, have been drowned.
We are very valuable, if dead! our Grooms must prove we fell.
It has been known, that Soldiers have us, tried to sell.
My Army number is stamped, on my front hooves.
In death, they cut them off, which will my identity prove.
Our eardrums are really battered, teeth fall out as well.
What else can be expected, in this place called Hell.
Pulled our gun twenty five miles, our very longest day.
Slipping, sliding, struggling, to keep going on our way.
Men screaming and shouting, their courage, they have to prove.
But for us, it is a matter of keeping on the move.
If I knew who God was, I would pray to him!
Saying “Take me away from here, from the Hell I’m in”.
What is this thing, like a nosebag, they put upon my head.
It is for gas, if, I don’t wear it, I may be dead.
We all get trapped, in the mud and gore.
Are there no rules, in this event called War.
Covered in mud, it takes twelve hours to get me clean.
Let this nightmare end, the worst years, there has ever been.
Six million horses died, from extreme conditions and disease.
Two million more, through shelling and trying to please.
I have no figures for those that returned to their old ways.
But most went for food, or knackers’ yard, to end their days.
There is more to this tale, which I won’t relate.
Just let me say, “it was a time, that I really hate”.
Like everything, good or bad, there is always an end in sight.
But, the question is, should animals be used, in any fight?
The answer is, “no” of this we must make sure.
They should not be subjected, to this blood and gore.
You must stand together and berate, those so called powers.
It is up to humans, to protect, these animals of ours.